The rain hit the streets of New Orleans like bullets, relentless and unforgiving, turning the cobblestone roads into rivers of black water. The city was drenched, shrouded in a thick mist that crept along the sidewalks, blurring the neon lights of Bourbon Street into ghostly streaks of color. Beneath the heavy clouds, everything seemed muted, like the world was holding its breath.
Inside the LaRoux estate, the grand mansion stood at the edge of the city, its once-proud façade now a shadow of its former glory. The house was a fortress of secrets, its walls lined with stories — dark stories. Stories of betrayal, power, and an empire built on corruption.
But tonight, the mansion felt different.
In the heart of the mansion, in a room filled with old books and antique furniture, Elias LaRoux — the man who had built an empire with his bare hands, a man feared by politicians, criminals, and billionaires alike — sat in a chair, staring out of a large bay window. His once-strong hands trembled slightly as he sipped from a glass of whiskey, his eyes hollow, burdened by something far heavier than his fading health.
LaRoux knew his time was running out.
The cancer had spread quickly, devouring him from the inside. But it wasn't just his body that was failing him. The world he'd built, the empire of wealth and power, was slipping through his fingers, and he knew it.
He had made enemies. Real ones. Powerful ones. The kind that could tear apart everything he'd worked for with a single move. And they were closing in.
As he stared out into the night, the weight of his legacy bore down on him. But there was one thing — one final move — that could change everything.
A sound broke the silence — a faint click as the door opened. LaRoux turned his head, his sharp gaze locking onto the figure standing in the doorway. It was a man, tall and lean, dressed in a black suit. His face was cold, unreadable, a perfect reflection of the world they both inhabited.
"I've made my decision," LaRoux said, his voice raspy. "You'll be the one to carry it out. After all, you're the only one who can."
The man stepped forward, his footsteps echoing on the polished floor.
"I'm ready," the man said, his voice low, almost a whisper. He was no stranger to the power that LaRoux wielded, or the dangers of crossing him.
LaRoux nodded, his hand shaking as he reached for a file on the desk beside him. The file was thick, heavily encrypted, with only one name written on the cover: Nate Bell.
"LaRoux's last will and testament," LaRoux rasped. "It's time to pass the torch. You'll deliver this to him. Make sure he follows through. He has no idea what's coming, but he will. He has to."
The man reached out, his fingers brushing the file. He understood the significance. This wasn't just a document. It was a key — to an empire, to power, to something far more dangerous than anyone could imagine.
"I'll do what's needed," the man replied, nodding once.
LaRoux closed his eyes, a rare look of peace washing over him. It was the final moment of control he would ever have. His empire would live on, but it wouldn't be in his hands anymore. It was time for the next generation to rise. And Nate Bell would be the one to carry the burden — whether he was ready or not.
As the man turned to leave, LaRoux's voice called out, one last time.
"Tell him… Tell him I'm sorry."
The door clicked shut, and LaRoux was left alone with his thoughts. The future was now in someone else's hands.
And as the man walked away from the mansion that had once been LaRoux's kingdom, the rain continued to pour, masking the sound of distant footsteps that echoed through the empty halls.
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End of Prologue
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